


Lost in Translation

by azriona



Series: The Next Level 'Verse [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Background Victuuri - Freeform, Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 08:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15360357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: All Dmitri wants to do is give the boy a working cell phone.





	Lost in Translation

**Author's Note:**

> This will make no sense whatsoever unless you've read Chapter 17 of The Next Level (which, of course, you should do immediately, but not before you've also read Chapters 1 through 16, because those will help too).

Sunday mornings are always incredibly dull. Dmitri doesn’t even know why he bothers coming in, since there are never any customers until at least two in the afternoon.

“Because,” says Maxim, who apart from being his best friend, is also the voice of annoying and inconvenient wisdom, “if you stayed at home, your wife would try to talk to you.”

It’s true, but Dmitri isn’t going to admit it. Especially to Maxim.

“Turn on the game,” says Maxim.

“There aren’t any games,” says Dmitri. And he should know, he watches every sport under the sun, including the ridiculous ones that aren’t really sport at all, like poker. Which is _interesting_ , and Dmitri learns a lot every time, but it’s not _sport_.

The most sporting Maxim ever gets is the game of solitaire he is currently playing. However: “There’s always a game _somewhere_ ,” he insists.

The television is nothing but static and lines. Dmitri bangs the remote against his hand, as if that might help fix the reception. It’s when he’s staring at the screen that he notices the reflection from the street.

_A customer. Oh thank heaven, a customer to relieve the boredom_.

The young man is bundled in scarf and coat and strange knitted cap, and he stares inside the shop as if he’s still trying to decide what to do. His glasses are fogged over with the cold and he’s very clearly a foreigner but there’s something vaguely familiar about him, something that is jogging Dmitri’s memory—

The dog noses up to the window glass. And Dmitri _knows_.

_Makkachin_.

Dmitri springs to the door. Because if that’s Makkachin, then this must be…

“What?” asks Maxim, looking up from his game of solitaire.

Dmitri throws open the doors. “Come in, come in!” he shouts in Russian, waving Yuuri Katsuki (because who else could it be, wearing a terrible knitted cap and walking Victor Nikiforov’s dog?) into the shop. Yuuri pauses, as if he doesn’t quite understand the words. “I would know Makkachin anywhere. You must be Yuuri Katsuki, yes?”

There’s a flash of worry and hesitation on Yuuri’s face, but he comes inside with Makkachin anyway. Any moment, he’ll speak.

He opens his mouth, and…

“Xhnxccbhin  ncnvvcnzliuhs,” says Yuuri Katsuki.

_English_ , groans Dmitri. Of course Yuuri doesn’t speak Russian. What a horrible twist of fate.

Well. He can still be hospitable. Dmitri is about to shake Yuuri’s hand and clap him on the back and offer him tea when Yuuri pulls out his cell phone.

Dmitri’s eyes go straight to the case.

“Makkachin!” he cries as he reaches for Yuuri’s phone. He flips it over and points at the little poodles that run across the case. “Maxim, look at this! The boy has Makkachin across his phone case.”

“Dog people,” grumbles Maxim. “Why are dog people so _demonstrative_ about their dogness?”

Yuuri speaks in English again – but since Dmitri doesn’t understand him, it doesn’t really matter what he says (though he does mention Makkachin).

“How else are we to make sure we don’t become friends with cat people?” Dmitri tells Maxim, who just huffs.

“I’m a cat person.”

“You had a dog on your coat when we met. False advertising.” Dmitri leans over and shows the cell phone case to Makkachin. “What a good stepfather your owner found for you, he already has you on his phone!”

Makkachin woofs and wags her tail.

Yuuri speaks again – still in English, still completely moot, except for reminding Dmitri that he’s there, and as a guest, requires attention and consideration.

And, possibly, an introduction.

Dmitri taps himself on the chest and enunciates as clearly as he can. “Dmitri,” he says before pointing to Maxim. “Maxim.”

“Okay, Dmitri, Maxim, _strasvodye_ ,” says Yuuri, clearly befuddled.

But he says it in _Russian_. Granted, it’s horrible Russian with a thick accent and the accents and pauses are on completely the wrong syllables, but nonetheless. Such attempts must be rewarded.

“Maxim, get the boy some tea,” says Dmitri.

“No,” says Maxim with a frown. “That was terrible Russian. My ears hurt.”

“He doesn’t speak Russian, give him a break,” snaps Dmitri. “I’d like to hear _you_ speak in Japanese.”

“I can’t speak in Japanese, or I’d tell him he needs to learn better Russian if he’s going to marry one.”

“I’m sure he’s well aware. Do you think he needs a new phone?”

“Oh, please,” scoffs Maxim as he walks into the back of the shop, where Dmitri keeps the tea. “That’s an iPhone 6, it’s fine. He probably just wants a SIM card.”

“Right,” says Dmitri, and goes behind his counter to get to work. The phone isn’t brand-new, but it’s at least in good condition, though there’s plenty of wear on the side buttons.

“Should we give him cookies? He’s in training isn’t he?”

“Of course you give the man cookies! He can decide whether or not to eat them, we’re not his mothers,” says Dmitri, tsking as he works. “He’s a bit of an anxious fellow, I think.”

“Oh, god, you’re Sherlocking it again,” groans Maxim. “Would you _please_ stop trying to analyze your customers?”

“You only see wear patterns like this on people who rub their fingers along the sides, and you only see people rubbing the sides when they’re worrying.”

“He is engaged to marry his biggest competition, that’d be worrying enough for anyone.” Maxim reappears with the tea just as Yuuri tries to speak again. Regrettably, it’s in English this time, and thus ignored. “Drink, drink! Hey, Dmitri, do you want me to call my neighbor? I think they speak Chinese.”

Dmitri has never been so embarrassed in his life. “He’s not Chinese, he’s Japanese. With a Japanese SIM card. And an American handset! What must he be paying in international fees?”

“So give him a new one! Japanese and Chinese is like Russian and Polish, isn’t it? They can understand each other.”

“Maxim, you’re an idiot. At least his phone’s unlocked, but this battery is in terrible condition, how can it hold a charge for more than ten minutes? I think I have a new one in the back.”

Yuuri speaks again. Dmitri isn’t sure why he even bothers. He heads into the back room while Maxim pulls out his own phone and starts calling his neighbor.

“Maxim, I told you, don’t call your neighbor!”

“Do you want to talk to this kid or not? Hi, Ivan, you speak Chinese, right? Okay, _fine_ , Mandarin, whatever, you speak it, yeah?”

“Aha!” crows Dmitri, finding the proper battery. He heads back to the main room. “Perfect fit.”

Maxim shoves his phone in his pocket. “He’s not coming,” he grouses.

“Fine,” says Dmitri, snapping the battery into the phone. “There, done.”

“SIM card?” asks Maxim pointedly.

“Oh, right.” Dmitri frowns.

“What?”

“How did they say it in the movies, exactly? Eye dee?”

Maxim gives him a blank look. Unfortunately, so does Yuuri Katsuki.

“Eye dee,” repeats Dmitri, more certain than ever that he has it right. “ _Eye. Dee._ ”

Yuuri stares at him for a long moment.

Just when Dmitri is about to give up and pull up Google Translate – and why he hadn’t thought of that before, he doesn’t know – Yuuri appears to understand. He responds in English as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his passport.

Which at least tells Dmitri that he’s on the right track, linguistically speaking, but won’t do a damn thing to help him get a Russian SIM card.

“No, I need a Russian ID,” Dmitri explains. “ _Roo-sky Eye Dee.”_

“Oh my God,” groans Maxim. “What are you doing, asking him for ID? He’s married to Nikiforov, isn’t he?”

Dmitri sighs impatiently. “No, he’s supposed to get gold first. Don’t you pay attention to the internet?”

“He won gold in Barcelona, didn’t he?”

“No, you idiot, that was Plisetsky.”

“Nikiforov’s the idiot. What kind of man sets goals in order to get married?”

“You said you were going to climb Mount Everest before you married.”

“You said you’d own your own cell phone store,” countered Maxim. “Still think that was a good idea?”

The sound of Yuuri speaking again – so lost and desperate and almost frantic – is a good reminder that he is, in fact, actually present, and that his cell phone is still in Dmitri’s hands.

Dmitri taps Yuuri’s phone. “Eye Dee.” He taps Yuuri’s passport. “ _Nyet_. No good. Roosky Eye Dee. Victor Eye Dee.”

Once, when Dmitri had been courting his then-girlfriend in hopes of turning her into his wife, he had accidentally signed them up for an acting class. It had been largely terrible and embarrassing and something Dmitri has largely tried to forget, except for the session on improv, because as luck would have it, he had been smashingly good at improv.

Which is possibly why Dmitri clasps his hands together around Yuuri’s phone and passport and begins to march around the shop, singing the wedding song as best as he can approximate.

It’s not his fault he’s tone deaf. And has two left feet. Maxim’s mouth drops open in shock and Yuuri is staring at him with such a befuddled, horrified look, that Maxim has to wonder if he’s accidentally humming a funereal song instead.

Makkachin helpfully lets out a bark.

“What the _fuck_ , Dmitri?” Maxim finally manages to shout.

“It’s the wedding march, you asshole! I’m telling him to bring his wedding certificate!”

“I’m the asshole? You’re the one who said he can’t marry Nikiforov unless he wins gold!”

“Bah!” shouts Dmitri, throwing his arms in the air. He turns to Yuuri. “Eye Dee. _Roosky_ Eyyyyyyeeeeee Deeeeeeeeee.”

Yuuri is spouting completely gibberish that might even be English. Or Japanese. Or Chinese, even, who knows, Dmitri has completely given up. He hands him back his phone and his passport, and Yuuri is clearly so grateful to have them both back in his hands that he looks like he might cry.

“You are ridiculous,” Maxim tells Dmitri, almost spitting with rage. “You’ve insulted him, you know. Reminding him that he’s _not married to Victor yet_. You’ll be lucky if he ever returns.”

“Don’t be stupid, we’re friends! He and I, we _understand_ each other!” Though Dmitri is afraid that maybe, perhaps, it’s very likely that Maxim might be right. “He’ll come back and it’ll be fine.”

“You’re lucky Makkachin doesn’t bite your ass,” snaps Maxim. Which would probably hold more weight, if Dmitri hadn’t already seen Maxim sneaking Makkachin bits of cookies when he thought no one else was looking.

“ _You’re_ lucky if he comes back,” says Maxim, gathering the tea things and going into the back of the store.

If Dmitri were a different man, he might agree.

But if Victor Nikiforov can go to Japan and come home with a man as talented as _Yuuri Katsuki,_ then by God, Dmitri can sell him a SIM card.

And that is exactly what Dmitri intends to do.


End file.
